Curiouser and Curiouser
by xMadAsRabbits
Summary: Sequel to Down the Rabbit Hole. To say that Alice is having trouble adjusting to her new surroundings would be an understatement.
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer: As usual, just my OC belongs to me and even that's not official. The rest all belongs to Marvel Studios, which belongs to The Walt Disney Company, and ABC, which I recently learned also belongs to Disney.**

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Chapter One

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 _December 19_ _th_ _2012_

Captain's log:

…

No, no; too cliché.

Hm. I'll figure it out later.

Moving on.

As this school year's winter recess draws near, I finally have time to resume my research regarding what the hell happened to me earlier this year.

Since being forced to become a consultant of sorts for SHILED, I have been allowed limited access to information SHIELD has collected on select otherworldly events. That is, as long as I'm able to add to what they already know, which I have been. However, I haven't told them is that I've also been documenting all of this information in hopes of learning how what they've recorded and what I know from movies, cartoons, video games, and comic books all fit together.

SHIELD also doesn't know that a lot of what I've told them is inferred and taken from obsessive fans on Tumblr. Lucky for me, those fans are all very thorough in their analyses; thorough enough to sound important to SHIELD and nearly impossible to prove wrong. Looks like all those hours on the internet may have played a part in saving my life. Who knew?

Anyway, in addition to this, I've decided that it is my responsibility to keep a record of what has happened to me so far, what happens to me in any given moment, and all other findings related to this strange reality-plot-twist. As all other sci-fi/fantasy fanatics know, things like this never happen without cause and reason, and I think it's safe to assume that it is in my best interest to figure out what exactly that cause was and what that reason is.

…I'm just asking for trouble now, aren't I?

Oh well. I can be productive and attempt to prepare myself now, or I can let myself fall into whatever trouble is waiting for me and just wing it. As fun as the latter may sound, I think it's time I learned a little thing called responsibility.

But that's not interesting, is it? I'm sorry to say that absolutely nothing otherworldly has happened in the last seven months—oh, who am I kidding? I am not sorry to say that, not in the slightest. I am so relieved that this world has been so uncharacteristically boring since May. I would've died a stress-induced death if the world didn't decide to calm the hell down. I—

…I spoke too soon.

Someone or something is behind my mirror, or maybe someone or something is in it. Whatever "it" is, it's causing the space around the mirror to pulsate. Hm. Okay, I know that I alone am not equipped to deal with whatever this next level, horror movie BS is, but at the same time, thinking like that isn't going to kill my curiosity. There's only one way to do that. Let's see…

I bought that mirror at Anthropologie. Typically, allegedly-haunted objects are old and handcrafted, not sold in bulk. I think it's safe to rule out the possibility of a supernatural occurrence.

Science is extremely advanced in Marvel's many universes and the possibilities really are endless. There's a good chance that what's happening here can be explained scientifically. The reason could be physical, biological, or chemical. Steve is the only other tenant left in this building, as everyone else has gone somewhere warm for the holidays, and he isn't the kind of guy to blast any music with intense bass, which is the only physical explanation I can think of. Only that corner of my bedroom seems to be affected, so it can't be an earthquake or any other natural phenomenon, ruling out a biological explanation. I doubt the pulse has anything to do with a science experiment gone wrong because again, no one is here, so no one could have performed a failed experiment and have it seep through the wall my mirror is hung on. That rules out chemical.

Oh, there's also astronomical; this is the MCU and aliens definitely exist. Although, I'm sure if the source is an alien planning to land in my bedroom via overpriced, full-length mirror, Thor and Friends™ would be on it.

And, again, because this is Marvel, the source of the pulsating might even be a mutant and if it is…well, I hope they're friendly because I'm about to get a closer look at this thing.

I must have been drugged or maybe just an idiot because who the hell does that? And—ow. I should not have touched it; son of a bitch just shocked me.

Well, touching the glass seems to have stopped the pulsating, so the problem has either been resolved or it's about to get—ow. Ow ow ow. Yeah, it got worse. The pulsating has been replaced by a high-pitched noise that keeps getting louder and louder and I should probably leave before I go deaf—

Then, all of a sudden, the noise is replaced with the sound of glass shattering and me screaming. The throw my arms up and turn my face away from the mirror, hoping to shield my eyes from the broken shards, but there are none. Instead, a cold, ice blue, mist-like substance starts to fill the room. It doesn't seem to be affecting me in any way. It feels like normal, cold fog and I seem to be breathing it in fine, no light-headedness or anything.

When the fog clears, nothing about my room has changed and I don't feel any different. Although, my hand has fallen asleep and I'm grasping something cold and metal in it. It's a small silver flash drive that definitely wasn't there before. How did…hm. Maybe whatever's on it will tell me how or why I have it.

"Alice? Hello? Are you still there? If you're trying to scare me, cut it out."

Oops. I forgot. I've been in a Skype call with Gage since I got home from school.

"Yeah, I'm here. Did you…did you see that?"

"See what?"

"You didn't…there was this blue light and…you didn't see anything weird happen on my end?"

"Your video cut out for a few minutes, but that's it."

"It did? Huh. I'm going to call you back in a bit, Gage."

I close Skype before plugging the USB into my laptop and wait for the computer to find it. When the little USB icon finally pops up on the screen, I open it. There's only one file on the drive and it's titled "Iron_Man_3_Trailer". That's weird. Even weirder, it's dated "March 6, 2013, 12:04am". I'm about to open it when there's a knock on the door that makes me panic and download the trailer onto my laptop before shoving the flash drive in my bra and slamming my laptop shut.

"Oh, hi Steve, what—"

Steve Rogers is standing in my doorway, holding his SHIELD-designed smartphone in front of my face. Well, he meant to. He overestimated my height and had to awkwardly lower it six inches, but you get the point. I step aside so he can come in, then shut the door before taking the device. When I'm finally able to read what's on the screen, I groan. The message says: "0-8-4 detected across the hall. SHIELD in pursuit. What's Alice been up to?"

Again with this 0-8-4 crap. How does SHIELD know everything and how did they find out about this as soon as it happened? Is Steve spying on me? Do they just have eyes everywhere?

"Why is it assumed that I did something? I didn't do anything, things just happen…" I pause and sigh. "Any chance you're allowed to tell me what an 0-8-4 is?"

"'Object of unknown origin'," Steve answers. "The Tesseract was one. From what I'm told, there haven't been many others."

My eyes widen in horror of realization. "They're going to take Loki's helmet! I have to hide it. But where…hey, did you leave your apartment unlocked?"

Steve sighs, caught between amusement and irritation, then shakes his head. Damn. Well, shiny gold cockroach helmet, I bid thee farewell.

I walk back into the living room and peer out of the window. There are two standard black SHIELD SUVs parked right outside this building and one across the street, facing the opposite direction the first two are. There's a SHIELD agent standing by each vehicle, but no one is entering the building.

Then, there's a knock at the door and another quick peek through the peephole tells me it's Natasha and some nameless SHIELD lackey. He's most likely some techie here to check for any remnants of this 0-8-4.

"Hi Natasha," I say. "Or do I address you as Agent Romanoff? Just Romanoff? Just Agent? Come on, help me out here. Oh, and hi SHIELD lackey. So, title or no title? Natasha or Romanoff?"

The boy looks offended, then replies in somewhat ill-suited feminine voice, "Hello!"

"Alice, this is Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz," says Natasha. "Or FitzSimmons as they're commonly referred to as in SHIELD."

"Oh. Two SHIELD lackeys," I say.

"They're sort of a package deal," Natasha explains. "They need practice being out on the field. They're being considered for a new, top secret assignment."

"I'm assuming by that tone I don't get to know?" I ask.

"The assignment is still in its early stages; they don't even get to know," Natasha answers. "And neither do I, but we're not supposed to complain."

The Simmons half of FitzSimmons is very enthusiastic about whatever the hell she's doing with all that equipment, as is the Fitz half, though he doesn't smile as much.

"Anyway, Alice, any idea why we're here?" asks Natasha.

As I recount the story of what happened five minutes ago, they listen as if this is just another Wednesday night for them and I'm telling them an only-semi-entertaining story about work. I guess that shouldn't be a surprise, considering this is what they do for a living. It's just a little alarming how normal this is for them in comparison to how shocking it is for me.

"From this mirror here?" asks Jemma, and it's then that I notice she speaks with an English accent. It's cute. Sometimes I wish I had a cool accent, but then I think about whether or not people would complain more or less about how much I talk. I suppose it would depend on who's listening. Maybe having an accent would make my chattiness more bearable to one person, but more annoying to the next, so really, I guess having an accent wouldn't make a difference.

Anyway, FitzSimmons takes turn scanning the mirror with various devices while I try to convince my legs not to give out. Hiding an object of unknown origin in my bra has turned out to be terribly nerve-wracking.

"What exactly are you guys doing?" I ask, then immediately regret opening my mouth at all. My voice shakes and I notice both Steve and Natasha making mental notes of it.

"Looking for irregularities in the electromagnetic field, possible remnants of extraterrestrial or otherwise foreign energies, that sort of thing," says Fitz.

"Oh! I think I found—hm. It's gone. Oh! There it is—no, gone again," says Simmons with a pout. "Fitz, would you check in with SHIELD to see if they still have an 0-8-4 appearing on their radar."

"The 0-8-4 was off the radar before we got here," says Natasha. "We're only here as a formality and so you two can get a feel of what it's like to be working out in the real world. If there's nothing here, then we leave."

"But we are getting something, it's just not staying," says Simmons. "And it's leaving absolutely nothing behind."

"It left one thing behind," I finally admit, removing the flash drive from my bra. "I wanted to see what was on it before I decided whether or not to give it to you guys, but I was going to pass out if I didn't tell you the truth, so here."

Some of the truth, that is. I feel less guilty about the file on my computer. The way I see it, putting something in my bra is going out of my way to hide it, but if they neglect to check my computer during an investigation, it's on them.

I hold out the drive for one of them to take, but before someone can, it flies across the room and hangs suspended inches from the center of the mirror. There's another explosion of electric blue mist and the sound of glass cracking. The devices in FitzSimmons' hands whir like crazy for a split second, but they quiet once the mist clears. Jemma is absolutely giddy after this strange occurrence, while Fitz has paled considerably. Steve has pulled Natasha behind him and out of the nonexistent line of fire, but she doesn't seem to be least bit disoriented, though she does have one arm shielding her face.

FitzSimmons starts running around the room scanning everything, looking for the flash drive or traces of that strange substance, anything that they could bring back to SHIELD as proof that this all really happened. They both come up empty and while they're disappointed, I end up finding some comfort in knowing they saw it, too.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," says Fitz. "Like it never happened. What are we supposed to tell Hand?"

"Same thing as last time," Simmons replies. "It's gone."

"Last time?" I ask, but no one responds.

"All right, then, time to head home for a debriefing," says Natasha. Steve and I walk them to the door, but they aren't gone for more than eight seconds before Natasha pops her head back into the doorway. "While I'm still here I might as well tell you: don't make any plans for tomorrow. That goes for both of you."

And with that she leaves for real. Now I can finally breathe easy.

"What was on the drive?"

And suddenly I have once again forgotten how to breathe properly. Dammit, Steve…

"Who knows? The mirror took it, you saw. I didn't get a chance to watch the—I mean, I—oh, just follow me," I say, defeated. I explain while I lead Steve back to my desk, "There was a media file that I downloaded before I answered the door, but I honest to God did not get a chance to watch it beforehand, and before you ask why I didn't show it to them, it's because I wanted to know what it was before I decided whether or not it was a good idea to tell SHIELD. It's not like I was hiding it from them; they're the ones who didn't check the laptop. Besides, the video probably got wiped after the whole fog thing happened."

I sit down in front of a closed laptop for a minute before I turn to face Steve. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, fine, I'll check," I resign.

Surprisingly, after some unusual interference, the video is revealed to still be on my computer. I have to take several deep breaths before I click on the file.

Blue mist appears yet again, but this time it starts in the middle of the media player window and moves outward to frame it. There's some static before the video starts.

 _"I'm Tony Stark. I build neat stuff. I got a great girl, and occasionally, I save the world. So why can't I sleep?"_

 _"You elected me on a single platform. I will defend this country at all costs. The Mandarin must be stopped."_

 _"You don't know who I am. You'll never see me coming."_

 _"What are you going to do about these attack?"_

 _"The whole world is going to be watching."_

 _"The question: where is Tony Stark?"_

 _"Things are different now. I have to protect the one thing I can't live without. That's you."_

 _"Mr. Stark."_

 _"Today is the first day…of what's left of your life."_

 _"I'm going to offer you a choice: do you want an empty life? Or a meaningful death?"_

 _"You're not a man. You're nothing more than a maniac."_

 _"I'm not afraid of you. There's no politics here; it's just good old-fashioned revenge."_

 _"We do need backup."_

 _"That's your department."_

 _"There's my boys."_

I'm left sitting there in absolute shock. Holy shit, this looks like a great movie! He has a whole army of suits! And he's facing his archenemy! And I don't even get to watch it. Damn. Unless…

I spin my desk chair around and see that Steve is still there, frowning at the computer screen. That answers that: I'm still here and Steve just saw…all of that.

"You should call Stark," says Steve.

"You should call Stark," I respond. "I'm sorry, that sounded like I was mocking you. I just don't have his number. He's a celebrity, he lives on the opposite coast; we don't really know each other like that."

And, to be completely honest—to myself, that is; I'm not ready to admit this to Steve or anyone else—I still can't seem to register the fact that Tony Stark is, in this moment, a real person. After all, I haven't seen him since the Battle of New York and we barely spoke to each other during that time period. On top of that, he was my favorite Marvel character, emphasis on the character part. I can't help but feel like what I saw was just another movie trailer. I cannot presently wrap my head around the fact that all of those things I just saw might happen to a real person that I know, or could even be happening right now.

"This isn't something we can keep secret," says Steve. "Especially if there's a chance those things could really happen to him."

I nod, even though I'm still processing everything. "I have another flash drive around here somewhere. We could bring it to Stark Tower tonight and have JARVIS forward it to him."

Steve considers this for a moment before saying: "Sounds like a plan—"

The second Steve responds, that electric blue mist appears on the screen then is pulled from the side of my MacBook and back into the mirror. The force pulling it is enough to send me rolling to the opposite end of the room and even Steve, the man built like a brick wall, stumbles backward a few steps. This goes on until my computer starts to spark and sizzle and—

"OH MY GOD FIRE!"

My entire desk is suddenly engulfed in flames. Oh, come _on_ , isn't that just overkill now? The wall behind my desk is almost entirely blackened by the fire, as is the floor beneath it, and the desk itself has already given out and become a pile of slowly melting PVC and charred wood. I struggle to get out of my office chair and end up having to pull myself along the wall and hope the momentum being created by the mist will do the rest of the work and push me out of the room. So far, it's not working thanks to my complete lack of upper arm strength.

Of course, freaking Captain America is able to walk out of the room using minimal effort, grab the fire extinguisher and put out the fire. As soon as the fire goes, so does the mist.

"How am I going to explain this to my aunt?!" is the first think I think to say. "All of this is going to cost thousands to replace and repair. Not that money's really an issue for her, but having maintenance work done over the holidays a minor inconvenience!"

"We still have to find a way to warn Stark," says Steve. "He might not believe us, and with good reason, but some of that stuff, real or not, looked too serious to ignore."

He's right. There's no valid argument for me to make here, even if I really wanted to argue. Still, before we actually do anything, I need to find a way to dispose of the half-charred, half-melted laptop…and the pile of other half-charred, half-melted objects. After that, I suppose…we'll have to make a trip to Stark Tower. Oh, that's so weird to even think about.

Despite the mental distress this past hour has put on me and the physical damage it's done in my room, I'm glad there's nothing left behind to get me into even more trouble with SHIELD. Even so, I can't help but wonder whether this strange occurrence was the last of its kind or the first of many.

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 **AN: Just wanted to say, I am not completely happy this fic. It's actually killing me how I have stories that I am happy with for most of the other MCU films that came out but I've been stuck trying (and ultimately failing) to make this one good enough for my unnecessarily high standards. I finally just gave up and decided to publish this one as is because Dr. Strange is coming out in two months and HOLY SHIT I love Dr. Strange and it recently hit me how there's a fair amount of material in the Earth-616 continuity that could help this little series I've been writing.**

 **But honestly, this particular fic on its own is just a fuckload of exposition for Alice's story arc mixed in with some elements of the MCU. I almost scrapped the whole thing and replaced it with a hastily done oneshot, but I already dedicated too much time to this so I'm committed now. Besides, there are famous authors whose books are just not worth the money that was made off of them and this fanfiction thing I do is just for my own entertainment and the entertainment it may or may not bring others, so what's the harm in putting this up? That said, I just remembered I need to go take my anxiety medication.**


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: Just Alice is mine. Marvel Entertainment owns the rest.**

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Chapter Two

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 _December 20th 2012_

Nothing will ever top that feeling you get after finishing final exams. The signaling of a completed semester, the solace found in knowing you don't have to pick up another book or pen for the next week and a half, knowing that nothing is riding on you being totally productive in that time.

And this year, I learned that nothing will crush that blissful feeling like seeing a SHIELD agent parked just outside the front doors of the university building.

"Ms. Alice Little," says the agent.

I nod. "Mr. Agent of SHIELD."

He hands me a laminated badge, "Your presence has been requested at the Hub."

"For?" I ask, examining the photograph they used. Clearly the mugshot they took back when Loki was wreaking havoc and I was a suspect wasn't a good picture to use on an official SHIELD ID card because they used my school ID picture from my sophomore year of high school. "What is this?! I'm a university student now, I look twelve in this picture! Why this?"

"You can take that up with administration once we get to the Hub. As for why you've been requested, I couldn't tell you. I was only asked to collect you," says the agent.

"You don't want to hazard a guess?" I ask with a smile that I hope translates as friendly or playful. I'm hoping to lighten the mood and while I'm used to SHIELD agents either being super uptight or extremely awkward, this guy takes it to a whole other level, one that leaves me with the impression someone once shoved a log up his ass and now he's trying to move on with his life without even considering removing it.

"There's no official file on you, at least not one available to my clearance level. If I were to hazard a guess, SHIELD consultants are typically gifted individuals, but that's usually not something worth hiding and you're coming out of an introductory-level exam, so you're somewhat intelligent at best but more likely just average," he says. Ugh, the guy's a freaking robot. He's nothing like the adorably eager scientists I met yesterday. And I think he was trying to imply that he think I'm an idiot, but I don't presently give a damn about that. Not when he mentions something like—

"No official file, huh?" I say. Hm. I wonder if that was Fury's call or a suggestion made by one or more of the Avengers. Wouldn't making a file on me unavailable raise suspicions rather than ease them? When information is unavailable, I know that I tend to jump to the conclusion that something is being hidden, rather than something simply being unknown. Maybe that's just me and how I was raised, and I'm the one in the wrong here, but, at the same time, maybe I should take this up with someone who knows what they're talking about rather than trying to answer my own questions. "Is the Director going to be at the Hub? Director Fury, Agent Hill, Romanoff, or Barton; do you know if any of them will be there?"

"As I've already said; I was only asked to collect you," he says. "I was told nothing else and I don't ask many questions."

We drive out to the airport where a Quinjet is waiting for us. I see that Steve has already been "collected", so thankfully, I don't have to spend the next few hours with only Agent Too-Good-For-Introductions. Really, did he expect me to get his name from the badge that he flashed for like .2 seconds or was he purposely trying to come off as douchey?

"So, Steve," I say, taking the seat across from him. "Did you get the tool's name or did they send a more pleasant agent to collect you?"

"Alice, this is Agent Grant Ward," says a familiar voice coming from the pilot's seat.

"Oh, hi Natasha," I say. "That's right, you didn't answer me, so now I've decided we are on a first name basis. Also, thanks. Hey, was this guy Nameless Co-Pilot from back in Stuttgart?"

"No," says Natasha. She doesn't elaborate and I'm almost upset by it when—

"The events that took place on and leading up to the Battle of New York shouldn't be a topic of discussion," says Agent Ward, looking back at me.

I blink, caught off guard by his abruptness. "Why not? Are you not allowed to know or something, because we can just pretend I didn't know that. I never get to talk about it and there are some good stories there, and you're all SHIELD agents so—"

"I'm suggesting you don't speak so casually about what happened. I'm clearance level six; I already got the full report, but there are a lot more agents at the Hub that can't know more than the bare minimum," says Ward.

"Well that's dumb," is my response.

That's when Agent Ward gets defensive. "SHIELD's infrastructure is based on the compartmentalization of intelligence. If every agent had the intel on every mission, the entire organization would be vulnerable."

"Wow. Did you memorize that on your own or did they program you?" I ask. I sound sarcastic, but a big part of me is genuinely curious. That explanation was way too precise. Then again, he wouldn't know if he was brainwashed, I mean, duh. SHIELD wouldn't tell their agents if they were being brainwashed (which they so are, by the way). Ward's jaw tightens to the point where I'm surprised it doesn't snap and whip Natasha in the face.

"Alice," Natasha warns, after which I apologize while also making a face at Agent Ward. He's too busy being the co-pilot to notice, unfortunately.

"But really, the whole compartmentalization thing, it sounds a little flawed. Sure SHIELD would be a more vulnerable in one sense, but if people know what they're getting into, wouldn't that decrease the possibility and overall number of casualties? Just saying. It sort of sounds like SHIELD treats their lower level agents as completely disposable."

"In _your_ opinion," says Ward.

Alright, that was completely uncalled for.

But before I can retaliate, Natasha cuts in with another stern, "Alice," after which I involuntarily apologize again, then change the subject.

"So, Natasha, why am I here this time?" I ask. "I'm not in trouble for yesterday, am I?"

"SHIELD wrote off yesterday's incident as a fluke, so no, you're not in trouble. I told Fury that you might be of some assistance regarding the Mandarin problem," Natasha answers. "The World Security Council has been pushing for SHIELD to respond to the Mandarin's attacks, but the problem is we're not entirely sure what we're up against. With a name like the Mandarin and the theatrics of it all, I figured you might have an idea. I also took the liberty of making sure you stay in staging ground with a small group of high-ranking agents, including Captain Rogers and myself, and before you ask, no, it's not entirely out of consideration for you, or at all, really. Someone needs to make sure you don't say more than you should."

"Oh. Okay," I say with a slightly confused frown. "That reminds me; aren't there higher priority assignments SHIELD has to give you that aren't, y'know, me?"

"I know it looks like whenever SHIELD needs something from you, they send me, but that's not the case. I'm responsible for making sure my partner gets to wherever SHIELD needs him and you happen to live nearby," Natasha replies.

"Your partner? Clint doesn't…oh, you're talking about Steve? But what about Agent Barton?"

"He's taking an extended vacation," says Natasha. "That's as far as anyone is allowed to know."

Hm. "Extended vacation" sounds suspicious, but I understand there's no way I'm getting the truth, so I won't bother anyone about it. Unfortunately, that means I've officially run out of things to talk about, which should please these three rather reserved individuals.

The next four hours are almost completely silent with the only exceptions to that being the jet engine and the old Mandarin broadcasts that Steve has decided to get a head start on reviewing. By the time we get to the Hub, I am so sick of the Mandarin's voice and could probably recite every single speech he's made, word for word.

Natasha leads us through the monumental SHIELD facility and once we get to staging grounds, we part ways with Agent Ward, and thank God for that. I can't imagine having to actually work with the guy on anything.

"Agent Ward is known to have issues working with others," Natasha explains. "Today was one of the very few, very brief encounters I've had with him. He typically works alone and he's rarely asked to provide transportation."

I frown, "Then what does he normally do? Is he a scientist? Is he an assassin like you and Clint? Is 'assassin' the right word?"

"SHIELD prefers to call us 'specialists', but we ourselves aren't too picky about the wording," Natasha answers.

I refrain from smacking her on the arm (because no one in their right mind would consciously do that to the Black Widow), "You let me give an assassin attitude?!"

Natasha has the faintest hint of amusement in her otherwise unfathomable expression as she responds: "You've said equally offensive things to a demigod, I didn't expect you'd be fazed by an assassin. You normally aren't, after all."

I can't think of a response, knowing she has a point, so I decide to quit before I fall even further behind.

After many twists and turns and bumping into SHIELD agents (okay, that last part was only me), we arrive at a conference room. The walls are made of glass and surrounding the room are dozens of SHIELD agents working on their computers. It reminds me of the Helicarrier with its rows of computers surrounding a platform, only here, there is no platform, just this glass cube containing a conference table and a monitor on each of the four walls. An agent I recognize as Agent Sitwell is standing in the cube, as well as several other agents I've never met.

"All right, now that we're all here," says Sitwell as we take our seats around the conference table. "Let's get right to it. You've been assembled—" He pauses because the word "assembled" elicits an entirely involuntary squeak from me. "—You've been assembled because SHIELD has been under pressure from the Council to respond to the Mandarin crisis. Commander Hill believes that you—well, most of you—are best equipped to deal with the current state of affairs, particularly in this strategic stage. I'm sure you're all familiar with the Mandarin's broadcasts over the past few months—"

In the middle of Sitwell's spiel, the monitor behind him powers up and a timid male voice is heard over the PA system. "There's been another bombing. It was actually almost twenty-four hours ago, but we, uh, we didn't know it was the Mandarin before this broadcast aired. There was no evidence that it was a bomb, actually…until now."

"Just play it," Sitwell says impatiently.

"Y-yes sir."

I suppress a groan as we all turn our attention to the monitor. Based on the videos Steve had been assessing during the flight here, the Mandarin has nothing new to say, other than a brief descriptor of his recent attack. That seems to be his pattern so far. The man really does not live up to the legend.

"True story about fortune cookies. They look Chinese, they sound Chinese, but they're actually an American invention. Which is why they're hollow, full of lies, and leave a bad taste in the mouth. My disciples just destroyed another cheap American knock-off: The Chinese Theater. Mr. President, I know this must be getting frustrating, but this season of terror is drawing to a close. And don't worry, the big one is coming: your graduation."

As the video cuts to static, Sitwell types something into the keyboard on his side of the glass table—this place is so cool—and the video on the big monitor changes.

"Just as a refresher," he explains, as he proceeds to play the rest of the broadcasts in order.

The broadcasts play on a loop and I fight the urge to fall asleep. I'm sort of functioning on a half-hour power nap and the leftover, rapidly depleting energy from the case of Red Bull I drank last night. How dare the Council pick exam week to force SHIELD to address the Mandarin problem. I'm freaking dying here.

We end up watching each broadcast six times, with everyone else typing on their own little glass keyboards and reviewing files on their glass windows, then shaking their heads after finding absolutely nothing helpful. I don't get a little keyboard and SHIELD database browser in front of me, so I just sat here yawning nonstop and eventually standing in hopes of staying awake. Finally, Agent Sitwell opens up the panel for discussion.

"None of this makes sense," says Steve with a frustrated sigh. "There's nothing; no connections between targets other than some small tie to America."

This makes me laugh a little, "Shouldn't that worry you at least a little, _Captain America_? …Sorry, I know it's time to be serious. I can do that, I promise."

"So no one's safe from this guy," concludes one of the agents who's name I've already forgotten. "The US is everywhere. Not everyone is happy about it or wants it that way, but we're everywhere. No one's safe."

"No one except North Korea," says Natasha, though as more of an afterthought. I laugh again, but receive only multiple blank stares in response.

The door to the conference room opens and Commander Hill walks in, asking for a full report. Everyone else shares a look and shakes their head except me because I don't even have the energy left to perform such a simple gesture. Hill is about to leave when something possibly helpful springs to mind.

"Wait, I have a question," I say. Blank stares suddenly become interested, then impatient, which would make me nervous if not for Steve and Natasha, as well as my internal battle with sleep deprivation. Steve seems open to anything at this point—within reason, as we've all been here for six hours—and Natasha was the one who brought me here, so she seems to have been waiting for me to say something.

"If this is a growing, global issue now—y'know, considering the most recent bombing was in Western Asia and there are a ton of other places in the world where the American government has some official place of business—shouldn't this be brought to the UN before you guys do anything drastic?"

"You'd think," says that same nameless agent from earlier. "We can't forget, though, that this Mandarin guy's been calling out our president from day one."

"The attacks are too random for any other country's government to make a decision. Like Captain Rogers said, the only connections between the bombings are some sort of tie to the United States. No matter who ends up caught in the crossfire, the Mandarin's ultimate target is the US," adds a freaking Amazon of an agent that I somehow am just noticing now. Seriously, it's distracting and definitely worth pointing out.

"And we've received information that the collection of footage has only been broadcasted in the States," Commander Hill adds.

"Hm," I chew on my lip, trying to think of a way to slip in the only relevant information I have into this conversation without being deemed a threat, psychotic, or some combination of the two? "Hold on…do you know who his…what's the word…oh! Do you know who his operatives are?"

"There's been speculation that he's the leader of the Ten Rings, but no one's been able to prove that," says Natasha. She then gives me a look that clearly says _Where exactly are you going with this?_

I clap my hands together, believing any work I could have done here is now complete. "Great. Call Iron Man and War Machine, tell them to hurry it up with the Ten Rings dilemma and we can all have a happy holiday season."

No one in the room seems happy with that answer, but eventually Hill speaks up. "I suppose we could simply take into consideration that Stark did unofficially claim the Ten Rings as his."

"And we all know how Stark is when people, especially SHIELD, interfere with his agenda," Natasha adds. "In addition, SHIELD not getting involved this early in a crisis is something the White House would be happy to hear. They wouldn't want to cause a panic and sending special ops all over the world would do exactly that."

Hill nods. "Well, then. If no one else has a better idea…"

No one does. Even though a lot of these agents would much rather take action against a deranged terrorist than let someone else finish the job, there isn't really a clear course of action to take. So, it's decided: we do nothing. I can't believe I just spent a grand total of twelve hours flying out to and sitting in a SHIELD facility only for nothing to happen. I suppose not every case is a big one, especially the ones Fury would actually willingly allow me to be a part of. Oh well, at least now I get to go home and sleep. Sleep. What is sleep anymore? Man, how the hell am I supposed to keep up with SHIELD consultations and university? Stupid SHIELD. I'm so tired.

"I don't even know why SHIELD's worried," I yawn. "The Mandarin is Iron Man's archenemy. I get SHIELD does counterterrorism stuff, but so do a lot of organizations and no one else has been doing anything. Hey, I never figured that out, y'know; is SHIELD like superhero backup or are they just a bunch of government tools that get in the way of justice? No offence."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asks a burly looking agent. He looks at me expectantly, but I'm having trouble recalling what I had said. Hill, strangely enough, is looking at Natasha for an answer. It's then that I begin to wonder whether SHIELD has communicative chips in their brain that allow for synthesized telepathy, because an unfathomable yet telling look from Natasha leads to this, from Hill:

"Alice, your work here is done. You're to meet Agent Ward on the flight deck; he'll take you home. And Romanoff, don't forget, the Director would like a full debriefing before you deliver the file."

A full debriefing…that doesn't add up. If Natasha is supposed to report to Fury, then why would Hill need to come in for a report? It's probably nothing. Maybe each staging team has someone report to Fury. Hill probably has a lot of other important tasks, being the deputy director and all.

But if each staging team needs someone to report to Fury, why wouldn't it be Sitwell? I mean, I like Natasha way better than that guy and I'm sure Fury does, too, but he seemed to be leading the conversation—although, my only indication of that was that he was the only one standing the whole time. Maybe this is something else entirely, something no one else is allowed to know about. That asshole Ward did explain how SHIELD operates…wow…I am so not looking forward to routinely working under these conditions; everyone speaking in the most vague terms possible, not having the whole story before going out and risking your life and the lives of others, all in the name of security. I guess that's not so difference from any other government or office job. You know: everyone sits around and does virtually nothing for most of the day, then we come to the conclusion to do more nothing until we're really forced to do something. That could apply to anything boring and tediously habitual, except working for SHIELD won't always be tediously habitual, considering spies, superheroes, and aliens are involved from time to time. Hey, maybe working for SHIELD will be fun. That is, when said spies, superheroes, and aliens come into play. Wait, tragedy isn't fun. Oh, whatever, it won't be boring is what I mean. Though it's up for debate whether being bored is better than being sad.

Ow. Headache. I wonder if I can get them to wheel a sleeping me out to the flight deck on a gurney or something because all that caffeine from last night finally ran out and I am crashing _hard_.

"Um, Commander Hill?" A baby-faced agent enters the conference room, blocking the rest of us from leaving. "There's been another announcement. It's not the Mandarin this time, it's, uh…here."

The agent fiddles around with a tablet and a new video appears on the screen mounted on the back wall. It's a bunch of reporters following a poorly disguised Tony Stark. I mean, seriously? A hoodie? This guy built the first Iron Man suit in a cave, but his best method for hiding from the press is a hoodie and a pair of shades.

"Mr. Stark! Mr. Stark! Our sources are telling us that this is another Mandarin attack. Anything else you can tell us?"

"Hey, Mr. Stark! When is somebody gonna kill this guy? Just sayin'."

"Is that what you want?" Tony finally snaps. He grabs one of the reporter's cell phones and points the camera at himself. The screen splits into two different points of view: the phone he's talking to and another reporter filming him from a side angle. "Here's a little holiday greeting I've been wanting to send to the Mandarin. I just didn't know how to phrase it until now. My name is Tony Stark and I'm not afraid of you. I know you're a coward, so I've decided that you just died pal. I'm gonna come get the body. There's no politics here; it's just good old-fashioned revenge. There's no Pentagon; it's just you and me. And on the off-chance you're a man, here's my home address: 10880, Malibu Port, 90625. I'll leave the door unlocked."

While some of the other agents are amused by this outburst, others, including Natasha, Steve, and Hill, are shaking their heads and sighing in exasperation. Despite their displeasure, I'm oddly cheerful.

"What'd I tell you?" I say with a smile. "Iron Man's on it. Time to go home."

And surprisingly, they let me go. I half-expected Tony Stark's anger-fueled threat to the Mandarin to force us to re-evaluate everything that was discussed, maybe consider not letting this wrathful man take control of such a massive terrorist issue, but in a way, Tony did just publicly announce his plans to rid us of the Mandarin once and for all. That should be enough for the Council and everyone else. It's enough for me, that much I can say for sure. And isn't Iron Man technically SHIELD by extension? There you go; problem solved. Right?


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: Still only own Alice. Marvel Entertainment owns the rest. Also, question: I'm not up to date with a lot of things; do I still have to do these? I'm sure everyone is familiar with the concept of fanfiction in this day and age, we should be past debating its legality...Screw it, I'm going to continue disclaiming everything just to be safe.**

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

 _December 21_ _st_ _2012_

Friday, December 21st, 2012. 21/12/12. The day the world is supposed to end.

I am not going to lie, I sort of believe that there is a chance that today might be it. Anything is possible. I'm not so deep into it that I built and stocked a well-reinforced fallout shelter, but I'm not a complete skeptic either. I'm just open to all of the possibilities. Who knows? Maybe today is the apocalypse of one of the world's many religions. Maybe it's all of them at once. Maybe the end of the world will be related to the whole Mandarin crisis that's going on; maybe the Mandarin will be the cause of World War III—one of the causes, at least, and possibly the main cause—and we'll all perish in an onset of consecutive fiery nuclear blasts.

Or maybe today will be just like any other day, the world will keep on spinning, life goes on, and any other clichés you can think of.

No matter what the outcome of today is, I know that waking up before sunrise because Natasha Romanoff decided to break into your apartment and put snow in your pillowcase cannot signal the start of a good day. I will give her points for creativity. Most people would just straight up dump the snow in their victims face, but by putting it in my pillow case, she ensured slower suffering.

I sit up while emitting a long, low, whining groan. Natasha is perched on top of my new desk, scratching at the scorch marks that still mar the wall behind it.

"Why?" I ask, pushing the cold, soaking wet pillowcase onto the floor. "Why this?"

"I did try setting off your alarm clock—twice, actually, but you smashed it then tried to punch me," Natasha answers.

"Well, that explains why my wrist hurts. Is there not a more gentle way to block a punch?" I say, wringing my hand as if doing so would somehow stop the aching and the bruise forming. I unplug my phone from the outlet behind my nightstand and check the time. It's 7AM on the dot, far earlier than I would've wanted to be awake on a holiday.

"The KGB isn't exactly known for being gentle," says Natasha. "And despite your lack of coordination at most other times, you're surprisingly stable when angry and half-asleep."

"Oh sure. As if I'd ever have a fighting chance against you, in this dimension or the next. If you're here because you can't find Steve, there is a chance he's in Brooklyn being sad and reminiscing; he does that sometimes." I say.

"Steve's home. I already spoke with him, we're due to fly back to the Hub in a couple of hours," Natasha replies. She throws a navy blue leather portfolio down in front of me. "I'm really here to deliver this."

The weight of the folder is enough to make the bedsprings bounce, "I see…And this is…?"

"Every single detail of your life so far, your parents' lives, and all related important events in the world of intelligence agencies, all put together to make you seem like a worthy SHIELD consultant," she explains. "What I could find, that is. Fury asked me to put this together this shortly after the Council ordered him to recruit you, but as I'm sure you can understand, there are many other more immediate threats than yourself. I was surprised yesterday went as smoothly as it did, until you started talking about what I, despite my better judgement, am forced to presume was comic book trivia."

"Oh, crap, did I really do that?" I ask. "Sorry…"

"Anyway, this folder is how the rest of the world, that is, the rest of my world, sees you. Every intelligence agency, security council, and government of an international superpower thinks this is who you are. You should memorize it as soon as possible; you won't get a heads up every time SHIELD calls."

She doesn't have to tell me to get started reading this thing; I'm suddenly wide awake and interested. Every single detail she could find about my life, my parents' lives, and all related events documented by SHIELD? I've hit the jackpot with this, I've struck oil, and once again, countless other clichés that simply mean, I'm set.

"And this won't get me in trouble?" I ask. "There isn't any inculpatory evidence, any information that could get me kidnapped and held for ransom?"

"You already have a lot of information you shouldn't; enough that it shouldn't matter if you knew more. There are a lot of people that people think you know more than you do. I'm actually surprised that your first run-in with SHIELD was only this year. If I'm being honest, you'll be in the same amount of danger you've been in your entire life, only now it's at least not without reason," Natasha answers. She's being the furthest thing from reassuring, but she has a point and it's not like I can protest. "The Council won't take action against you as long as from this point on, you make yourself an asset to SHIELD."

I nod, "I mean, that's not exactly what I meant, but still helpful. Well, maybe not helpful right now, but it was informative and will likely be helpful at some point in the future, so thanks. I was actually thinking about how my father was a CCO for Wall Street. I've never been interested in business and economics, but I know a lot of people say Wall Street is sketchy and if that's true, then my father made all his money—including all my inheritance—helping people do sketchy things."

Natasha raises an eyebrow, "You really don't know anything do you."

"Uh, ouch, I know some things, Natasha—"

"That's not what I meant," says Natasha, shaking her head. "It's not your father's work SHIELD was ever interested in—"

Her comm device goes off as I open the file and she doesn't finish her sentence. I barely register the sound of of the front door shutting, what with being preoccupied holding what is essentially the equivalent of my own origin story. This is a lot. I'm holding the lifespans of three people, and then some, in my hands. If Natasha's tone was any indication, this might sound like a completely different family than mine and maybe even a completely different me. I almost don't want to read it. Almost.

A couple of pages in, it appears I'm not so different in this reality compared to my old one. Everything seems to line up as I remember it to, although I don't remember my mother being a research engineer for NASA. I knew she was a scientist, but I didn't know it was for NASA. It's not really a big deal that I didn't know; I was eleven when my parents passed and was raised mostly by a nanny when they were alive, so their lives are all but a complete mystery to me anyway. Other than that small detail, everything—hm. Okay, now that can't right…and _that_ is definitely not true!

Cursing quietly because my aunt is hungover in the next room, I search my closet for a pair of jeans and a sweater. I dart around the room, collecting the necessities—keys, phone, wallet, top-secret file containing incriminating details about my family history, etc.—and once I think I have everything, I attempt to quietly exit the apartment with my coat and a pair of riding boots folded over my arm. As fate would have it, Natasha and Steve are just exiting his apartment as I'm pulling on my boots. Oddly enough, I'm glad this run-in happened.

"Oh. Alice," says Natasha. "We have to get to the Hub, is there a problem?"

"Yes, there is—"

"Is there any chance you can wait until we get back?" Steve asks.

"No, no, it can't because this will drive me insane if I have to wait until the next time I see Natasha for an explanation," I answer.

"You might not have a choice," says Steve, though there is some sympathy in his tone. The incessant beeping coming from his pocket indicates whatever is happening at the Hub must be urgent. Still, I think it's my own personal responsibility to prioritize my sanity, so as he and Natasha make their way down the stairs and out the door, I follow them.

"Alice, I'm not sure Agent Romanoff has time to discuss this with you right now," says Steve.

"Which is why I'm not saying anything _right now_ ," I reply. "I'm coming with you."

Steve sighs, "Alice."

"No, it's fine," says Natasha. "Just…let her."

Huh. That's weird. Why is she acting cool with this? She shouldn't be cool with this. Hm. Maybe if I follow them, I might end up seriously regretting it later. Natasha could know something is going to happen, something that might ensure I won't be a bother later on, whether that means I end up being detained by SHIELD or worse. On the other hand, she might be pretending to be okay with me following them so that I will overthink things, get scared, and end up staying home, like I'm starting to do right now.

All of that aside, the overruling detail is that I have no idea when I'll see her next, so I have to do one of two things: follow these two to the Hub or throw a tantrum until they stop and let me talk. The latter is no doubt going to be ineffective seeing as "they" are a Super Soldier and a master assassin, and I am an almost-nineteen year old who shouldn't be throwing tantrums.

We arrive at Stark Tower, to my surprise, where there's a jet waiting on the landing pad of the penthouse. Something about this slight change of scenery momentarily reawakens the fangirl part of me and for a split second I forget how upset and confused I am. Then, I realize where I am, who I'm with, and why I'm with them and suddenly I feel like crying tears of frustration. These past few months I've been hoping that I'd have accepted and at least partially figured out all these new things in my life, but now I'm back to asking the same question I had asked myself and everyone around me hourly those four fateful days in May: what the hell is happening right now?

During the flight out to the Hub, I notice every so often either Natasha or Steve hazards a glance back at me from the cockpit, like I'm an active volcano and the ground around me is doing a little more than just shifting. Nevertheless, there are too many things going through my mind for me to utter a single word in response. Funny, I followed them in hopes of getting some answers, but I'm not even sure what the corresponding questions would be. I suppose I want to know how SHIELD found all of this information, but what I really want to know is who they got it from or where they found it. I also planned on asking what exactly led SHIELD to believe my parents were assassinated by an unnamed foreign intelligence agency, but what I really want to do is talk to whoever conducted that investigation and hopefully find out why anyone could possibly have wanted my parents dead. Seriously, even in the MCU, assassination is heavily frowned upon as a solution to any problem.

And overruling all of those questions and appeals—or more accurately, preventing said questions and appeals from properly forming—is the shock of this entire situation. The shock as well as the frustration that I need SHIELD to help me figure this out—whatever "this" is.

Or do I?

No, I'm not being weird right now; there is someone else that might be able to help me and there's a good chance, to my knowledge, that SHIELD would have no trouble finding them. Hell, I could find her on my own if I had the patience to ask around the city enough, but I'm already en route to the Hub. I might as well make the trip worthwhile. A typical flight to the Hub is four hours, despite the Hub being all the way—wait. Dammit, I forgot: I'm not allowed to disclose its location. Oh, whatever, four hours of my Christmas break is gone, so I better make this count.

I follow Steve, Natasha, and their greeter-agent through the facility, but the Hub is buzzing even more than usual and I quickly lose track of them. _Oh_. I see. This must be why Natasha didn't mind me following along. I wouldn't get the chance to be bothersome, at least not to her, because she could easily lose tiny, still-only-five-feet-tall me amongst all the hurrying SHIELD agents that are all dressed the same as her and range from average height to freaking huge. Also, my SHIELD ID says Clearance Level 1, so I can't really go anywhere that isn't a hallway. Smart move, Natasha. Not that I expect any less from the Black Widow.

Despite this troubling new development, there is one good thing to come of a big operation going on today. Otherwise, I might not have spotted Nick Fury out and about, being trailed by hordes of SHIELD agents. It's a bad day to be the only one not wearing a onesie, isn't it, Fury?

"Fury!" I shout as loud as I possibly can. "Hey! Hello? Fury!"

No response. Not from him, at least. A few agents paused briefly to acknowledge my presence—though, one could argue they were forced to. It's hard to ignore the one person not in uniform, flailing her arms around trying to catch the Director's eye.

Maybe if I address him formally: "Director Fury! Yeah, tall guy with the eye-patch, I'm talking to you!"

Okay, that wasn't completely formal. Or polite.

I jog to catch up with him and all his yes-men, hoping to get his attention. "There. Now you can't use the excuse of not being able to hear me. I need—"

"Sir, we were unable to find anything useful at the site of the incident, so far. As you know, Stark's security systems are unparalleled, but our team is working on it."

I try again: "Hey—"

Fury dismisses the agent that was just speaking, but not a second later, another one has stepped forward.

"Ms. Potts, to our knowledge, is safe. There was another individual at Stark's residence who we are still working on identifying."

" _To our knowledge_ better be good enough, agent. Next time I see you, you better have an exact location on Ms. Potts and an ID on the unknown."

The agent nods and hurries away, after which yet another agent steps forward. It's then that I see the agents following Fury are all lined up. Looks like my only hope is to get in line. Damn.

Fury waits until every agent has been addressed and dismissed to even look at me, and even then he just keeps on walking. He tries to lose me by turning a few sharp corners, but I finally get him to acknowledge me. He doesn't stop to let me catch my breath, but he does acknowledge I'm here.

"All right, Little, what'll it take to get you out of out of my face?" He asks.

"It's a real simple request, I promise."

"Then get on with it."

"Okay, you see, I read that file Agent Romanoff put together—well, I skimmed, but that's beside the point. I have questions, but they can wait as long as you can help me find someone."

"As easy as that request would be on any other day, your case is not priority," says Fury, stopping so quickly in the middle of the hallway that, no joke, I skid forward and almost slip. "I have every available agent looking for Tony Stark. I advise you to head home. We can continue this discussion when I have a free minute—after Stark is found."

I frown, "Why is SHIELD looking for—"

Something in the room behind Fury catches my eye and I'm drawn into it. The room is full of monitors, each playing a different news story. It's nothing I haven't already seen: the agents are analyzing the Mandarin videos. The sound from each broadcast is being redirected into a SHIELD agent's headset, but I don't need to hear what's being said. However, there is a new headline that finally clears my head: "IRON MAN'S CHALLENGE AND THE MANDARIN'S RESPONSE"

Despite all the questions, concerns, and ill-advised comments going through my mind, "Damn," is the only thing I actually say. I pick up a headset corresponding to the footage of Tony's Malibu mansion being destroyed by attack helicopters.

The agent working at this station tries to take the headset from me, but I maneuver out of his reach. "Hey, do you have the clearance—"

"I'll allow it," says Fury, and the agent backs off.

The reporter isn't saying anything important, he's just reacting to the bombing and handing the report off to another journalist who is actually on site. I get a strange, sickening feeling when I see that the following footage of the horrific aftermath is live. A new headline appears: "TONY STARK PRESUMED DEAD"

I shake my head, "He can't be dead. You don't think he's dead, do you, Fury?"

But Fury isn't behind me like I thought he was. No wonder he waved the clearance check for me. Wow, am I that easy to trick? I'm just going to tell myself it's because they're trained in stealth that they were both able to lose me so easily. Regardless, it looks like I'm out of luck. I seem to run out of luck early on in situations like this. Oh well, I'll just have to make my own.

I won't be seeing Fury anytime soon. Not until Tony's found and this whole Mandarin thing blows over.

Well, then. I know I don't have a fighting chance if it came down to stopping a terrorist, but looking for Tony Stark can't be more strenuous than a very complicated game of hide and seek…at least, that's what I'm going to tell myself from this point on.

The agent that asked about my clearance level earlier taps my shoulder and I remove the headset. He doesn't actually say anything to me and instead makes a simple gesture towards the door. Oh, this is just great.

"Alice Little," says Agent Ward. "Time to go home."

"Ugh, don't you have conspirators to murder or whatever it is 'specialists' really do?" I groan. "Why are you playing pilot? Flying a helicopter isn't special. I can fly a helicopter. Kind of. After twelve more hours of lessons I can—that's not important. Why's it you who got stuck with flying me home?"

"I didn't ask," he answers, although not knowing why he's completing such a mundane task is clearly bothering him, too. Especially since it means we're stuck with each other for the next few hours.

But I can't let that distract me. I was forming a plan before I was graced with this douchebag's presence. Now, what was it…oh, right. Extreme Hide and Seek with Tony Stark. Hey, when I word it that way, it sounds like it could be fun.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: Marvel Entertainment will forever own everything, save Alice. Who knows, maybe they'll take her one day, too...nah.**

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

There's really no excuse SHIELD could possibly have for losing track of Tony Stark and then taking this long to find him when he has an AI that he's programmed into all of his homes, personal offices, and active suits. It would be completely rational to suggest that JARVIS would know the most about what happened and who was there when Tony's mansion was bombed, and there are three people that I am positive JARVIS answers to: Tony Stark (obviously), Pepper Potts, and Bruce Banner. So, if you want to find Tony Stark, you would ask JARVIS, and if JARVIS won't talk to you, then you ask one of the three aforementioned people to speak to JARVIS for you. Right now, Tony and Pepper don't seem to be available, but there's a good chance Bruce Banner is. Dr. Banner is very much an introvert, so it's almost certain that he can be found in Stark Tower, where he currently resides.

As soon as I'm back in Manhattan, I find myself sprinting towards Stark Tower. It's a terrible decision on my part. Winter in the city is brutal and being five feet tall means the dreaded slush puddles sometimes go deeper than knee-high. Even though I know to avoid any puddle, no matter how shallow it may appear, I'm not coordinated to miss all of them. On top of that, it's snowing. By the time I get to Stark Tower, my boots are covered in ice droplets and my hair is cold, damp, and stringy.

"I need to see Dr. Banner," I miraculously manage to say, despite being half-frozen and out of breath. The secretary looks absolutely insulted by my appearance, but when JARVIS greets me by name, I'm allowed access to the elevator.

"So, JARVIS," I say, on the long ride up to the Department of Research and Development. I wonder what it is scientists do all day. Apparently enough to keep adults locked indoors for days on end. "Any chance I'm allowed to know where Tony is?"

"My apologies, Miss Little, I am not at liberty to answer your question," JARVIS answers.

"That's all right, I sort of expected a no," I reply.

"Is there a reason for this unexpected visit?" He asks.

"I'm hoping Dr. Banner might be able to…answer some questions," I answer. Quickly, I add, "I've been curious as to whether that whole reality shift thing affected me on a genetic level."

I really hope Tony didn't program JARVIS to be able to detect lies. Technically, I wasn't lying; I just said one truth after another unrelated truth. Any correlation is up to the listener…

Am I a terrible person?

"Shall I inform him of your presence?" asks JARVIS.

"Oh, no, I want to surprise him," I say.

"I must say, I'm not sure Dr. Banner appreciates surprises," says JARVIS.

I laugh, although I really have no idea whether or not that was a joke, "I'll do my best not to make him Hulk out, if that's what you mean."

The elevator stops at what looks like something out of horror movie. This floor is just a bunch of dark, empty laboratories. This doesn't look like fun at all. Why would Dr. Banner want to spend all his time here?

"Dr. Banner is working in the last laboratory on the right," says JARVIS. "But he does currently have a visitor, so you may have a bit of a wait ahead of you."

A visitor? "Thanks, JARVIS. Oh, and shhh. This is still a surprise."

JARVIS doesn't answer, but a gentle flicker of the lights in the room to my left lets me know he understands. Aw. That's kind of cute. I like JARVIS. Now I feel bad for sneaking around him.

Anyway, back to business. Who else is here? Oh god, I hope it's not Betty. I don't have a problem with her—I actually liked her character—I just don't want to walk in on something traumatizing. Still, Dr. Banner can't do anything that'll get him too excited, right? As much as that must really suck for him, I'm going to cling on to that for my own sake. I just really don't want to see two middle-aged people going at it.

Having said that, a very brief glance into the room tells me exactly who's here, visiting Dr. Banner. You know, for a spy, I'm surprised Natasha isn't more concerned about her red hair being a huge identifier.

I crouch down and flatten my back against the wall adjacent to Dr. Banner's lab, hoping keep my presence secret, but also to try catching a few helpful words.

"Did SHIELD send you?" Bruce asks.

"SHIELD doesn't want to interfere," says Natasha. "They're convinced Stark has made it his battle and they're leaving it at that. They would like confirmation, however, that he's alive to fight that battle. And I volunteered to come here out of curiosity."

Bruce asks JARVIS…something about Tony…and then JARVIS says something…something, "alive, something, "Rose Hill, Tennessee", "it might be best no one else knows about this", and then there's some static before a voice that sounds a lot like Tony says, "Who's that signal going out to, JARVIS?"…"I swear if I find out there's a SHIELD agent anywhere near this sad little town—"

And that is all I need. I'd better get out of here before they see me and have the opportunity to stop me.

I must be really desperate for answers if I'm willing to go to Tennessee, but maybe that's just the born-and-raised New Yorker in me talking. That aside, first things first; I need to get my car.

I attempt to hail a cab and surprisingly one comes to my rescue within the next two minutes. I will take that as a sign from the universe that I'm doing exactly what it wants me to do. Of course, there's no telling whether or not the universe is rooting for me or just wants to see me screw myself over, but either way, I'm thanking them for this yellow hunk of metal miracle. I direct the cab driver to the SoHo Village Parking garage where I keep my car. He tells me to mind the upholstery, something I have no idea how to reply to, so I simply hum in response and direct my attention down to my phone, looking up directions to Rose Hill, Tennessee.

* * *

 _December 22nd 2012_

The drive from Manhattan to Rose Hill is about nine hours, but by using backroads and ignoring all consecutive speed limits, I was able to turn nine hours into six, arriving just before four in the morning. Let's hope Tony Stark hasn't left Tennessee as that time.

Wow, that's a big "let's hope". Oh no, what if he's gone? I didn't think this through enough, did I?

Oh God, I really did not think this through. How did I manage to do that with all of the overthinking that happened? What the hell was my motivation to do this in the first place? Did I do all of this for Tony? I barely know the guy. Sure, he was my favorite Avenger back when he wasn't real, but in this world he's a very busy, middle-aged asshole/superhero, so in other words, I haven't actually had the chance to say a single word to him since the Battle of New York and even if I had been given the opportunity, what could I possibly have to talk to him about? That said, I'm going to go ahead and say no, I didn't come all the way out here just for Tony Stark.

There's also the new information surrounding my family. Did I do this for them? Do I have some desire to protect them, or at least protect their memory, from something? From some insane reputation that might not even exist? If that's the case, I must be as delusional as Loki. I know nothing about who my family was. I know what my parents did for a living and what kind of parents they were—absent. As for the rest of my family, I couldn't tell you my grandparents names if you asked because they were dead long before my parents met. In addition to that, I grew up an only child. In a biological sense, I wasn't an only child, but the only siblings I have are a half-sister from my mother and a half-brother from my father, both of whom I didn't meet until my parents' funeral and haven't spoken to since. As for my aunt, she's only mentioned twice in this file: the first time listing her as my mother's sister and the second time listing her as my legal guardian. I can't be doing this for her and I certainly can't be doing this for any of the rest of them.

Sadly, since it took me so long to realize how ridiculous this whole plan was, my car is almost out of fuel. I'll have to figure out how to deal with that. I'm already here, so I might as well see if I can find Tony and maybe try getting him to work with SHIELD or at the very least, hurry things up.

I park my once pristine, now disgustingly dirty, silver Audi R8 beside a hardware store. There's so much empty space out here—forget the MCU, this here feels like another world.

Nothing seems to be open yet and as embarrassing as it is to admit, I'm too afraid to find houses and go door to door. The media, at least the kind of entertainment I'm into, has made me afraid of hick towns. There's that Stephen King story, "Children of the Corn", where the quaint little village is run by satanic Amish children who sacrifice adults to some kind of corn demon. My nineteenth birthday isn't for another month though, so I guess I don't have to worry about any wacko little kids hunting me down. But then there's also that episode of Supernatural where Sam and Dean learn that the case they're working on isn't supernatural at all, it's just a deranged family who liked hunting humans for sport. And at the end of that Stephen King story, didn't the town lower the sacrificial age to eighteen? Why am I thinking about this? Why am I still here? I should leave before I'm trapped by the townspeople.

No, no; I'm here to find Tony Stark. And if it comes down to it, I do have a Taser.

There's a diner across from the hardware store that's slowly filling up with people. Breakfast or even just something hot to drink sounds great right about now and seeing as I no longer have a lead on Mr. Stark, I should probably start asking around. Someone has to have seen a red and gold metal suit landing out here in the middle of the night and if not, Tony Stark grew up in the city, so the likelihood that he's blending in seamlessly right now is very low.

After letting myself have a vain socialite moment to brush the stringiness out of my hair and wipe away the smudged remains of yesterday's makeup, I leave my car and walk to the diner. The customers are still waking up, reminding me that it's been almost twenty-four hours since I last slept. I better get at least one full night's sleep before school starts again. Even though it's my fault I'm here, I'm still upset about that.

The woman behind the cash register takes my order and while I'm waiting, I decide to start asking if anyone has seen Tony.

"Hey, sorry to bother you, especially at…six in the morning—yikes—but I'm looking for someone. Have you seen a man in his forties, about 5' 9" with dark hair, dark eyes, and frighteningly tidy facial hair? No? Okay. Then did you by chance see something bright and shiny fall out of the sky last night? No? Okay. Thanks anyway."

The same exchange happens at every occupied table in the diner before I retire back to my seat where there's a 20oz Dixie cup full of hot cocoa waiting for me. I thank the woman behind the register and drop a ten dollar bill in the tip jar, then leave the diner to ask the same questions to people opening up the nearby stores. No one seems to know what I'm talking about, so I end up back in my car where I have heat—that is, until these last few gallons of gas run out. I don't remember seeing a gas station for at least another fifty miles out, so I'm either going to have to call someone to pick me up or see if one of those fuel delivery apps is legit. Let's see, who can I call…

I can call Steve. He could inform someone at SHIELD of my dumb decision to drive all the way out here and maybe they'll send someone to come get me. Then again, SHIELD isn't going to be happy to hear about this and they'll probably go as far as keeping me under heavy surveillance until the Mandarin is in their custody, possibly longer than that. My aunt is definitely drunk right now, she pretty much aims to stay drunk for the length of any holiday, so it wouldn't be good for either of us if I asked her for help. Gage is in England for university right now, so he's not an option, and Jace and Lainey are stoned all the time so—whoa. Am I antisocial or something? Why do I only have five people in my life?

There's a knock on the window, disrupting my train of thought. It's a little kid, around ten or eleven years old, and he's motioning for me me to roll the car window down.

"You wouldn't be looking for Tony Stark, would you?"

"Hey! Actually, yea—" Wait. This might be a trap. I narrow my eyes, "…What makes you think I'm looking for Tony Stark?"

Well, that wasn't convincing in the slightest. Good job, me.

"Are you the girl that hangs out with superheroes in New York?" asks the kid, instead of answering my question.

"That's kind of a weird way of wording things. I wouldn't say I hang out with superheroes," I answer. "The alien invasion was like a one-time thing, and it wasn't like we were hanging out, they were saving the world—mostly the city, but possibly the world if Loki had taken over. I was just kind of there, it doesn't mean I hang out with superheroes."

"I've seen you on the news, having lunch with Captain America," he says.

"People actually report that kind of stuff? Wow—hey, you live in the middle of nowhere, do you even get news? Much less news like that, stuff that shouldn't count as news."

"Sometimes my mom leaves TMZ on."

"Fucking TMZ—oh no, I'm sorry. Don't say that word. At least, not around your mom. And you should also probably stop watching TMZ, it's trash."

"If you're looking for Mr. Stark, I know where he is."

"…You do?"

"Yeah, he asked me to find him a map. I could tell you where he is—"

"Awesome, where is he?"

"—for a price."

I blink. Ow, wow, the kid is serious. What happened to Southern hospitality? Maybe that's a myth. I really need to get out of the city more, I didn't even know there were towns this small. How do these people live?

"Well, kid, I have twelve dollars and a credit card," I reply. "Besides, you said Tony needs a map, a map I see in your hand, so couldn't I just follow you and find him? I suppose you could wait until I get distracted or give up, but I don't think you want to keep Iron Man waiting."

He pauses, then resigns and tells me to follow him.

"I'm Alice, by the way. There. Now we're not strangers. It was really bugging me; you shouldn't talk to strangers. I could have been a total creep. Even teenage girls can be creeps, you know."

"My name's Harley, and if you're friends with Captain America, then I'm sure you're not a creep."

"Huh. Can't argue with that logic. So, why are you hanging around Tony Stark? Or why is he hanging around you? Do your parents know what you're doing right now, or whoever it is that takes care of you, do they know?"

"My mom's at work right now and my dad left to buy scratchers six years ago, and I just found Mr. Stark in my workshop."

A workshop? Is that normal? For kids to have workshops? "You have a workshop?"

We walk for over half an hour, then Harley stops in front of an old barn—I don't like where this is going. An old barn? Do normal little Southern kids hang out in old barns? Lainey and I used to hang out in old warehouses, though if I'm to be totally honest, I never liked doing that.

Just as I'm about to turn around and run away from this horror-movie-esque setting, Harley opens the barn doors and I can clearly see an Iron Man suit sitting on the sofa, as well as a familiar genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist hard at work.

"Good work, Harley," I say, reaching into my bag and handing him my iPod. "Here. It's full of indie/electro pop stuff, but if that's not something you're into, you can just sell it on eBay. Have Mr. Stark sign it; it'll be worth thousands."

"What's she doing here? I didn't ask for her," Tony says in his typical rushed tone. "Where's my map?"

Harley pockets the iPod and brings Tony the map. "She was out in town looking for you."

"So you told her? What if she was sent to kill me? Didn't think about that, did you? We could've both been dead by now," Tony sighs. "You know what, it happened, it's over. Thanks for the map; now, the sandwich."

Harley exits the barn and heads to his house across the dirt road. Tony turns to me and says, "Now, tell me what you're doing here."

I sit myself down on the sofa, right next to the Iron Man suit, and—okay, this is either the most comfortable sofa ever made or I am that tired.

The next thing I remember is hitting my head on something metal and waking up.

"Ow, what the hell?" I say after seeing the Iron Man suit's head propped up beside me.

"Oh, good, Harley almost called 911."

It was Tony who spoke. He's still working away on his…wires. I have no idea what he's doing.

"Are you really wake this time?" Tony asks, stepping forward with a screwdriver. "Because you've sat up several times and stared into the distance before passing out again."

"I'm awake. Why's it dark out?" I ask, stifling a yawn.

"You slept for ten hours," says Harley. "It's 6:05."

"Now that you're up, you can tell me why you're here," says Tony, carefully removing the Iron Man helmet from the rest of the suit.

"I'm here to bring you back to society," I reply. "Everyone's looking for you. They don't actually intend to come get you, they just want to know you're alive, but I need you to come back."

"Aw, you missed me. That's sweet. And no. I'm staying here. JARVIS already told someone I'm here. They know I'm alive. Whoever 'they' are." He places the helmet on the table in front of the couch, then kneels down and starts attaching wires to it.

"I didn't come here for your sake," I reply. "Or SHIELD's—everyone is all hung up on the Mandarin problem, which I understand is serious, there's no question; people are dying and the guy needs to be stopped—"

"Hence 'no'. Why do you think I'm out here? I'm not taking a sad vacation, I'm finding answers, prepping for battle, the whole spiel, so go home."

"Tony, I'm too stubborn to beg you, but if I wasn't so stubborn, I would be begging you. Do you really have to do this on your own? SHIELD is a counterterrorism bureau, it's their job to deal with guys like the Mandarin. It doesn't have to be personal—"

"It's already personal!" Tony snaps, throwing his tools down onto the table and standing. He pauses before walking over to his workstation and adjusting screws on his invention. "He made it personal. Happy is in the hospital in critical condition because of him. He could die. Pepper was in the house when he bombed it, she could have died too, so no, I'm not going to return to society unless it's to ax the Mandarin."

"I get it, this all sucks, but—"

"What's your part in this, anyway? If it's not because you care or because SHIELD told you to, why are you here? For the thrill? Was Manhattan fun for you? Of course it was, with your whole alternate universe, comic book crazed fangirl thing."

There's a pause before I respond, "What?! No! No, Manhattan wasn't fun for me. And if you want an explanation, I can't give you one, because I don't even know why I'm here anymore. Natasha dropped a huge bomb on me that's screwing up my perspective on everything again and Fury refuses to tell me anything until you come back. I didn't want to wait for all those SHIELD tools to figure out how to get you back without getting in your way because then I'd lose my damn mind. I'm not even supposed to be here. Not just here as in Tennessee, here as in, this entire shitty situation! I should be at home binge-watching bad TV, not arguing with _you_ in this absolute shithole of a town. Sorry, Harley, it's nothing personal, I've just never been in a city with less than half a million people, I might learn to like it in time."

Tony takes a deep breath, "Okay. You know what you need to do right now? Get over it. It happened— Sometimes life throws you a curveball and you just have to deal. And you think SHIELD can handle the Mandarin on their own? The Mandarin has been a problem for a year now. The Ten Rings have been around for at least a decade. This entire thing is bigger than your comfort and even your sanity. People are dead, people are dying, and it's going to keep happening until someone does something about it and I decided that someone needs to be me. Maybe SHIELD's working on it, but they all have their heads too far up their asses to be anything close to competent and the ones that aren't complete morons are too busy lying to everyone else. God, you're more naïve than I thought, not to mention selfish. The reason you don't know why you're here is because you don't belong here. You're just some clueless kid who can't see past her own wants."

His words sting, but the only retaliations I can come up with sound childish.

"I don't get why you're such an egotistical control freak about everything," is my delayed, mumbled response, after which I storm out.

And so, I've been forced back into the cold. Technically, I wasn't forced, but my feelings are hurt so I don't want to be around Tony right now—see? Childish. Coming all the way out here was definitely a mistake. That thought occurred to me long before I even got here, but I ignored it for the sake of finding answers. Instead of getting what I wanted, I pissed off Tony Stark and now I'm stranded in Tennessee. I could apologize, but that won't get me home and I'm not even sure I'm sorry. I'm going to have to plead ignorance here because how was I supposed to know Tony was going to react that way? He has his own personal agenda, I have mine. The two just happened to clash unpleasantly and by no means is it my fault.

…


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: I still own nothing, except Alice (sort of), and none of that's about to change.**

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

As I trudge miserably back to my car, it starts to snow again. I find myself sitting in my car, trying to figure out where I'm supposed to go from here. My car is out of gas, but there's an app for that and I have since received a notification that help is on the way and should arrive in the next two hours, what with this town being in the middle of nowhere. However, a lot can happen in two hours and I can't completely count on this service being legit so I'm left with this unsettling feeling that I just can't shake.

Soon, it becomes too cold to just sit here. My only other sitting-and-waiting options are Harley's barn and the dive bar. Everywhere else is closed or closing, so I guess it's time to test out that fake ID Lainey made for me.

As I approach the bar, I hear a woman sobbing. It's a frightening sound and I hesitate before turning to see if there was an actual woman sobbing somewhere. Thankfully, there really is an elderly woman kneeling in front of a…crumbling…concrete wall…surrounded by candles casting human silhouettes onto said decrepit wall. She's accompanied by an old man which could make this predicament a lot scarier or a lot less scary, depending on how you look at it. They start walking towards a small path just off of the candlelit ruins. I'm curious about the odd shrine in the middle of nowhere, but after the bedroom mirror fiasco, I don't think I'm going to try investigating this time. There's a waitress from the bar standing outside, smoking a cigarette. Maybe she knows something about the shrine.

"Hi, sorry to bother you, but I have to ask someone; what's the story over there?" I ask. "Crumbling wall, eerie candlelight, human silhouettes…?"

"There was a man that lived here; Chad Davis," says the waitress, who's name-tag says Tara. "He was a sergeant in the army. He went missing for a while during his service, then summer of 2009, he just shows up back here, out of the blue. Not long after, again out of nowhere, the man goes crazy and makes a bomb. Blew himself up and took five people with him."

"Wow. That wasn't what I was expecting at all," I say. Hm. It's strange how Tony just ended up here, at the site of a bombing, when he's trying to track down the Mandarin, who's been randomly bombing places Americans frequent or reside…Maybe this wasn't a suicide bombing, or it was but the Mandarin planned it and the only reason it's not listed as a Mandarin bombing by SHIELD is that it was simply too early and too random to be identified as one.

"Wait, there are only five silhouettes, ones that I can see at least," I say, and it's almost as if she was waiting for me to point that out.

"Some of the locals say the shadows are the mark of who's souls went up to Heaven. Suicide bombers don't get to go to Heaven, so Chad Davis didn't get one."

She tosses the butt of her cigarette into a snowbank while I pause, repeating the strange explanation in my head, "I'm sorry, but do people really believe that? I can get on board with the idea of an afterlife—to an extent—but that can't be a real explanation for the silhouettes."

She shrugs, "I don't not believe it. Some people find it comforting. Besides, it's not like anyone made it out of that bombing alive."

"Well, if it was strong enough to vaporize five people and immortalize their shadows, someone must've been far enough to not get vaporized. Did they not find any remains?" I ask as a woman almost shoves past us to get into the bar. I quickly step out of the way when I realize that I had been blocking the entrance.

Tara frowns, "I wasn't living here when the bombing happened, so I don't have all the details. I don't know where you're from, but asking about human remains like that is considered impolite around here."

I tilt my head, "How often did people have to ask about human remains before it was widely considered impolite?"

She shakes her head, "Really, kid, you need to think about some of the things you say before you say them. The woman that just walked in is Mrs. Davis, the suicide bomber's mother."

My jaw drops; I'm horrified and embarrassed, "Oh my god, I'm so—I didn't—I really didn't mean any disrespect."

Tara only tosses another cigarette filter into the snow and lights another one. The conversation is over and regardless of whether it was her attitude or my thoughtlessness that ended it, I'm finally hit with the fullness of the current state of affairs. Just the embarrassment of speaking so casually about peoples' deaths—and in front of the mother of one of the deceased—I can't imagine how it must feel to lose a child, then have the whole town (disregarding how this town is made up of only 800 people) say it was a suicide bombing and that her child went to hell for it. I've been in therapy since I was twelve because of my parents' death, but it had nothing to do with losing my parents, at least, not after the first three years. As sad as it is, parents are supposed to go before their kids. When it's the other way around…like I said, I can't imagine what this woman is going through and I've been totally inconsiderate.

Damn. Now I know what Tony was talking about, and now I understand why he acted the way he did. He's got that superhero complex: any death he doesn't prevent is, in his mind, his fault. Plus, he almost lost two of the most important people in his life because of the Mandarin, so there's that personal factor. Here I am, being a pissbaby for being left in the dark about something that wasn't true until this year when people are dead and dying and everything else Tony was trying to get me to understand an hour ago. I should definitely apologize.

And just when I come to that conclusion, who should the Fates send into the bar?

I open my mouth to say something, but Tony simply breezes past me and into the bar. He starts talking to Mrs. Davis, so clearly this is not a good time to interrupt, even if it is to apologize.

"Oh, it's you."

I look down and see Harley crouching down against the building, drawing in the snow with a stick.

"Hello," I lilt, trying to be cheerful despite everything that's happened and everything I've heard today. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Waiting for Mr. Stark," he replies. "What are you doing?"

"The same," I reply. "Actually, I was waiting for some app guy to bring me gasoline for my car, but now I'm starting to think I downloaded the wrong app because he should be here by now. And now I'm waiting for Tony, so I can apologize for being an ass earlier."

"I don't think you were being an ass," says Harley. "A little dumb, maybe, but not an ass."

"…That might actually be worse. I mean, we could compromise and say I was being a dumbass, but—hey. No more saying the 'ass' word. I'll stop, too."

"I'm not that little, you know," he says. "I'm eleven."

"You're little to me. And you're little in your mom's eyes. I think that's a forever thing, but I can't really get confirmation on that. I don't know anyone with parents or kids."

"Really?"

"Well, I'm an orphan, my aunt has no kids, my best friend's parents disowned him, my only other friend lives with her older brother because the court said her parents were inadequate caregivers, and like you mentioned earlier, I hang out with superheroes. Can you think of any superheroes with parents? Or kids, while we're at it?"

Before Harley can answer, someone in the bar lets out a tortured scream followed by a gunshot. We both turn to see Tony sprinting out of the bar, while a woman chases after him, seething.

"Am I seeing things or is that woman glowing?" I say to Harley, when I should probably be running away like everyone else.

But Harley's not beside me anymore. He's tackling some guy with a gun.

Oh. Oh no. Why is he doing that?

Without an actual plan in mind, I rush to his aid, and by "to his aid" I mean, I run in that direction, then stop ten feet away from the child trying to fight the grown man and losing. It had just hit me that I'm not that much bigger than Harley, despite the eight year age difference, so I don't think actually trying to physically fight the strange man is going to help anyone. Except for maybe the strange man.

That's when I notice that the man's gun is no longer in his hand; it's lying by his feet. Trying to shake the anxiety off, unsuccessfully of course, I rush forward and grab the gun.

"Get off of him," I say, pointing the gun at him and backing away. I'm hoping it was said with confidence, but with the way my chest is pounding and my hands are shaking, I doubt it was even the slightest bit intimidating.

The man stands, his back still to me, raising his hands in surrender, but after he glances back at me, he lowers them. He laughs, turning to face me. I take a deep breath and steady the gun…for about four seconds before I start shaking again.

"You're not going to shoot me, are you?" He smiles. "It wouldn't matter anyway. You can't hurt me, even if you weren't a coward."

His eyes flash orange and his vein begin to glow the same fiery hue as he saunters forward.

"A-are you sure about that?" I stammer. Way to go, Alice. He definitely thinks you are a force to be reckoned with now. I attempt to pull the trigger, but my fingers are incapable of summoning the strength to do so. It isn't because the trigger is in any way resistant, but because my fingers are suddenly numb. Dammit, this guy is dangerous, why can't I just shoot?

He raises a glowing hand and even from eight feet away, I can feel the intense heat radiating off of him that increases with every step he takes.

"So, uh, what does that do?" I ask, for reasons I can't think of.

"You want to find out?"

"Well, duh, that's why I asked. Wait, no—"

I panic and finally pull the trigger, but, instead of a bullet being fired, a bright, electric blue ball of light bolts out of the rear sight of the gun and towards me. I shut my eyes, waiting for the impending electric shock that I'm expecting from it, but nothing happens to me. Nothing except for when I open my eyes and I'm suddenly behind the man. Oh crap, this is Stuttgart all over again.

Confused, the man spins around, burning hand still raised, and the same thing happens: I involuntarily pull a trigger that, now that I think about it, feels nothing like the heavy duty plastic of the gun, and I end up shrouded in blue light. The light disappears almost as soon as it appears and I'm in a different spot. After a few more disappearing acts, I catch on to what's happening—or rather, what I'm doing. I start to feel that cold, misty substance collecting in and around my wrists and something clicks in my mind, something that's telling me to use it. I just can't figure out what "using it" means.

Then, unfortunately, just like in Stuttgart, the man catches on to what's happening and grabs hold of the barrel of the gun, slowly heating the plastic. It starts to soften and the feeling of heated polymer against my skin quickly becomes unbearable. I drop it before it can melt into my skin or explode in my hand and the man laughs, the orange glow disappearing from his complexion. He shakes the melted plastic off of his hand and the droplets harden onto the frozen dirt road. Before I can react, his searing hand is suddenly wrapped around my throat and I'm being lifted off of the ground. Harley tries to go for a second tackle, but the element of surprise has died down enough for it to be unsuccessful. Yep. Just like Stuttgart.

That is, until I feel something shock my neck and I fall to the ground as the man shouts, sounding like he's both in pain and in shock.

"What the fuck?!"

Ignoring my aching tailbone, I look up to see what happened and oh God is it disgusting. The man's hand is gone, leaving a neon orange bloody stump. How did…? More importantly, how is he not freaking out?

Oh. He's not freaking out because of a little thing in sci-fi called rapid cell regeneration. In normal-people-speak: he has both hands again.

But before he can try to off me again, we're all distracted by an explosion. Harley shields his face while I duck behind a rusty old truck. Yes, coming here was a mistake, no matter how I look at it. I could be hanging out with Lainey right now, watching her brother's band try and fail to bring back grunge music, or mingling with socialites at one of my aunt's parties, or even surprising Gage in England with a roundtrip ticket to Manhattan for Christmas, but instead, I'm hiding from the MCU's villainous Lava-Girl clone.

I take a second to just be away from it all before I check to see if the coast is clear. It is, but I get the feeling that there's something wrong with the picture…

Oh, crap, where's Harley? Tony's nowhere to be seen either, but he's a grown man and a superhero more than capable of taking care of himself, so the question remains: where the hell is Harley?

As I walk down the dirt road separating two rows of old wooden buildings that'll soon be engulfed in flames if the firetrucks don't get here soon, I see a familiar face emerging from behind the ruins of the diner.

"You're still here? Of course you're still here."

"Thanks, Tony. Glad you're okay, too," I say sarcastically.

"Where's the little guy? That kid Harley, have you seen him?" asks Tony.

"No, I lost track of him after the explosion," I reply. "And for your information, I wasn't planning on staying more than an hour after I left the barn, but my car's out of gas."

"Doesn't change the fact that you're still here and have found yourself in yet another mess to add to the register. Shit. The kid better be at home with his mom and not off with those glowing freaks."

Tony stops a short distance in front of me and scours the surrounding area.

"I'm sorry," I say, "for being selfish and naïve and for calling you a control freak. I know you mean well, you're a superhero for a reason and, simply put, you're really good at being one—"

"Less Lifetime movie crap, more 'let's find my irritating but helpful child sidekick before something bad happens'," says Tony.

"Help! Let go of me, you—"

"Found him," says Tony. "I'd tell you to stay put, but the question springs to mind: what are the chances you'd actually listen?"

"Fine, just to prove you wrong, I will do the smart thing and stay right here," I say as Tony runs out to what appears to be a junkyard or just a collection of scrap metal piles. Sighing, I lean against the back of my car, making a mental note to remind me to do the smart thing more often. I have complete trust that Harley will be okay since it's Tony going over there to help him, and the kid's pretty smart himself. This will definitely be the last time I ever try to force something to go one way. I should trust that the world will somehow balance itself out—isn't that what I loved about Marvel in the first place? No matter what happens, no matter how bad things get, someone will save the day; how could I forget that? I may not be watching this all happen through an LED screen or a movie theater projector, but that doesn't have to mean the rules of that universe no longer apply.

"Um, are you Alice Little?" asks a shaky voice, from somewhere behind the hardware store.

"Who's asking? I have a Taser," I shout back, quickly unlocking my car and taking the Taser out of the glovebox.

"I have your fuel," the voice replies.

"Oh! Right, thanks. Well, coast is clear, mister."

A man that doesn't look much older than me comes out from behind the building and starts filling up my car's gas tank. I'm about to give him the last of the cash in my wallet as a tip, considering the trauma he seems to have gone through delivering fuel during a battle between Tony and the glowstick soldiers, but I'm momentarily distracted by what appears to be the town's water tower falling over. That can't be good.

Something lands near my feet, and I see that it's the empty fuel jug. The sound of rapid footsteps tells me the guy's already booking it out of here. I throw the jug over to where the diner is still burning, realizing too late that the jug probably still has bits of gasoline in it and that was a dumb move.

My attention is drawn back to the junkyard, where there's a series of flashing lights, followed by a crash. Not long after, Harley comes running out of the junkyard and Tony comes strolling in a short distance behind him.

"What now?" I shout.

"Doesn't concern you. Go home," Tony replies.

I roll my eyes. "And we're back to this, I see."

Harley interrupts, crossing his arms and turning around to face Tony, "Hey, you're welcome."

"For what? Did I miss something?" says Tony, twirling a set of keys in his hand and strolling on past Harley, who has to work a little harder to keep up.

"Me saving your life," says Harley.

"Yeah, A: Saved you first, B: Thanks, sort of, and C: If you do someone a solid, don't be a yutz, alright? Just play it cool, otherwise you come of grandiose," says Tony. Aw, he finally has a Robin to his Batman. Wait, ew. No. Batman sucks. I'd say Bucky to his Steve but in this timeline, Bucky's older than Steve so it doesn't really play into the whole child sidekick thing. Maybe the Navi to his Link?

"Unlike you?" says Harley. "Admit it, you need me. We're connected."

Tony is unconvinced. "What I need is for you to go home, be with your mom, keep your trap shut, and guard the suit. And stay connected to the telephone because if I call, you better pick up. Okay? Can you feel that? We're done here. Move out of the way or I'm gonna run you over."

Tony opens the door to a shiny black car that I think I can assume belonged to one of the glowstick warriors. He slides into the driver's seat, shuts the door and starts the engine, but after a moment, rolls down the window. "…I'm sorry, kid. You did good."

Harley's tone changes and it's hard not to laugh at what he says next: "Now you're just going to leave me here, like my dad?"

"Yeah," says Tony, like he wasn't really listening. "Wait…you're guilt-tripping me, aren't you?"

Harley pretends to shiver, "I'm cold."

Tony gives him a look that starts off sympathetic, which doesn't match the words that follow, "I can tell. You know how I can tell? 'Cause we're connected."

And with that, he speeds away. Harley turns to me and shrugs, "It was worth a shot."

I smile and shake my head. There's a bit of an awkward silence before I sigh and say, "Well, it was nice to meet you, Harley. Good luck with whatever it is Tony has you doing."

Harley begins the long walk back to his barn while I head back to my car. As I'm looking up directions back to Manhattan, I notice my eyes keep glazing over and I'm yawning nonstop. Maybe I should look up directions to the nearest hotel instead. Most of the results on Google Maps are for motels, but eventually I find a nice looking hotel a little less than two hours away. Yes, I know, I'm being a bit of a princess right now, but motels scare me and today helped me realize that small towns also scare me. After another near death experience, I think I'm going to let myself just be indulgent right now, even if that means going a couple more hours without sleep.

The drive to Blacksburg, Virginia ends up being both peaceful and unsettling. A two hour drive gives me time to think about…well, it's me, so I think about everything. What am I doing? Just in general, what am I doing? What do I plan on doing for the rest of my time here? Is this going to become routine? And what the hell is that blue stuff that keeps coming out of nowhere and basically making a damn marionette out of me? I swear, if it's freaking Thanos or someone possibly worse doing this, I…will hopefully know what to do if it comes down to it. Maybe I should talk to Dr. Banner about this when I'm back in Manhattan. I'm not sure if I can trust SHIELD with running tests. Then again, SHIELD's bound to catch on sooner or later. Hopefully it'll be later, but I know what happens when I hope for things; the universe laughs and says "NOPE." At least, that's how I imagine it. Also, the embodiment of the universe, in my head, oddly tends to look like a weird lovechild of Dr. Manhattan and Loki.

Okay, now I definitely need to go to sleep after letting that weird thought slip out.


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer: It all still belongs to Marvel Entertainment. I'd even consider relinquishing any ownership of Alice if not for all the time I spent crafting and perfecting her special level of complete and utter ineptitude. Sorry Alice.**

* * *

Chapter Six

* * *

 _December 24th 2012_

I wake up Christmas Eve morning to an urgent knocking. A quick glance at my phone tells me it's just after seven-thirty. Last night, after spending a day just relaxing at the hotel, I had asked the front desk for an 8AM wake-up call. It's bad enough I sort of disappeared without notice, but to bail on my aunt and my best friends on Christmas is almost unforgivable. Still, I did say 8AM, so I'm going to take my sweet time leaving this bed.

When I finally do get up to answer the door, I expect whoever was there already left, but instead I see the last person I expected and really, one of the last people I want to see right now.

"Why is it always you?" I ask, even though I know he's only going to tell me that he doesn't know in the most condescending tone possible.

"As I've said every other time you ask that question, I don't ask," says Agent Ward. See? Asshole.

"Right. Well, what do you want?" I ask, even though I'd much rather be shutting the door and going back to bed. The only thing stopping me is the SHIELD emblem glaring at me from his ID badge; SHIELD wouldn't react too well to me slamming the door in their face. Well, that and the fact that I still don't know what the title "Specialist" entails and I don't want to experience it firsthand.

"You're going to have to come with me," he says, and reluctantly, I get dressed and follow him.

Agent Ward doesn't actually explain what's happening until I'm sitting in the passenger's seat of his SHIELD vehicle and we're on the way to the airport. SHIELD better be sending someone to get my stuff and my car back to Manhattan.

"There was a SHIELD team sent to Rose Hill, Tennessee last night, for the routine investigation and damage control," says Ward. "There are witness accounts of you being involved in the altercation that occurred two nights ago, so Commander Hill sent me to collect you for a debriefing."

"How does SHIELD know that it's me these witnesses…witnessed…?" I ask, cringing a little at my poor wording. I'm only reinforcing his low opinion of me. It's not that I care whether or not the guy likes me, I just don't like being talked down to—figuratively, of course; I fully understand that nothing can really be done about him being at least a foot taller than I.

I'm completely caught off guard by the small smile that very briefly breaks Ward's eternally callous composure as he replies, "Some of the locals mentioned an 'annoying city girl wearing a Cruella De Vil wig'. And one was able to get your license plate."

"Ouch," I say. "Wait—a wig? This isn't a wig! I'll prove it, pull my hair. Wait, no, I'll pull it—I'm not risking getting accidentally scalped. Also, you really sounded like you wanted to tell me that. You could've just said that their descriptions matched me, but _no_ , I just _had_ to know their exact words. Whatever, I've heard worse."

But once again, Ward is back to his Terminator M.O. and doesn't reply, and I'm not sure what other topics I can burn through. There is no Steve and Natasha when we get to the airport, so the flight to the Hub is also to be had in silence. At least, it would be if not for my aversion to uncomfortable silences.

"I know you don't ask, but you have to know something or at least have an idea as to why it's either you or Agent Romanoff that comes to collect me whenever SHIELD requests my presence," I say. "Both of you hold the same job title. Specialist can mean a number of things, but you both fall under the same category. Aren't there lesser agents who can provide transportation? Ones that don't have anything better to do?"

Agent Ward is silent. He's either not allowed to say anything or he simply doesn't want to talk to me. We don't exactly click, so the latter is more than understandable. On the other hand, what if he's only pretending he doesn't know or that he doesn't ask? Is it an issue on his end? Has he been demoted or is he being punished? Is that why he's the one taking me to and from SHIELD meetings and debriefings? That's one possibility. It's also an unlikely one, considering how there are exactly four SHIELD agents (five if Steve counts as a SHIELD agent) who know about the file Natasha made and it's true origins, and I've only told half of those agents what I think happened to me. I suppose it sort of makes sense that they can't just send anyone available; I have a tendency to talk and SHIELD doesn't like sharing information.

Does that mean Ward has the whole story? Does it maybe mean he knows more than I do? He definitely knows something that I'm not allowed to know. Whether or not that something would hold any significance to me remains a total mystery.

We end up at the Hub again, and I'm walked down to an interrogation room for my debriefing. While I'm waiting for Commander Hill, Natasha stops by the door and says, "Heads up."

"Heads up for what?" I want to ask, but she's gone as soon as she appears. My first guess is Hill, but I'm already waiting for Hill so Natasha has to be talking about someone else. The Director, maybe?

I don't have to sit here guessing for very long. Shortly after Natasha's little guest appearance, Steve walks in, folds his arms, and stands by the doorway. Before I can even say hello, he's scolding me.

"What were you thinking?" He asks. "Going after Stark like that? You could've gotten yourself killed. You almost did, according to the reports from this morning's investigation."

"I think what we should take from that is the word 'almost'. I almost died, but I didn't," I respond. Steve opens his mouth, probably to scold me some more, but I cut him off. "Why are you going all parental on me? It's not like superheroes don't do that kind of stuff all the time. I bet if any of the Avengers did the same thing I did, you wouldn't be giving them a stern talking to or whatever this is. Maybe I was just trying to be like you guys."

Steve doesn't buy my BS excuse, however. "Is that the story you're sticking to?"

"Uh-huh," I say, but when he doesn't leave, I cave. "Fine, gosh; to answer your other questions, I don't know what I was thinking. Too many things, probably. It's probably all just a bad reaction to all the changes going on in my life. I thought I had a lot on my plate with university. Now, I have to deal with being in some weird alternate reality where fictional characters aren't fictional and parts of my own life aren't the same as I remember them to be. I have memories that don't translate into this world and I'm missing information that I should have. I guess I just went into overdrive trying to piece everything together. I can't even justify any of the decisions I made these past couple of days. I panicked—but that's no excuse, I know."

Steve only nods in response, prompting this question from me: "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Steve asks.

"Things seem to come easily to you, even though you're in a completely different era," I say. "You helped save Manhattan, you joined SHIELD; you're doing good—and notice I said 'good', not 'well'. You're not just moving on, you're also making the most of what you've been stuck with. I have noticed how you spend a lot of time in Brooklyn, but that at least makes sense. You're from there, you have so many memories in Brooklyn, no one would blame you for wanting to revisit. So, what's your secret?"

Steve loosens his stance and leans against the edge of the doorway. "I'm not so sure you have the right idea."

I frown, "What do you mean?"

But Steve doesn't get the chance to answer. Commander Hill walks in, dismisses him, then shuts the door behind her.

"Alright, Alice," she says. "How are you going to try explaining this one?"

I tell her everything that happened from the minute I left the Hub two days ago all the way up to the attack in Tennessee. Agent Hill fills in some of the blanks; the two enhanced individuals that attacked us are subjects of an experiment called Extremis, an experiment that SHIELD finally traced to a company called AIM not long before I got here. The man behind the Extremis virus isn't the Mandarin and, instead, is the product of a man named Aldrich Killian. I tell her what happened after the attack, leaving out Harley's part in it in hopes of preventing SHIELD from interfering with Tony's plan or bothering the poor kid. I also leave out my odd display of possible otherworldly abilities. I'm still not entirely convinced that it was me doing all that and I'm not sure I can trust SHIELD to believe that I don't know and for them not to experiment on me or worse, weaponize me.

But, to my dismay, Hill already knows.

"We have witness accounts of you…well…they weren't quite sure what you were doing," she says, flipping through her papers. "Some described it as…I think what they meant was teleportation. Others said wormholes were opening up erratically."

"Oh," is all I can think to say.

Hill waits for me to elaborate, but when I don't, she asks: "You're not confirming or denying this?"

I shrug. "It was as surprising to me as it was to them. I mean, yeah, seeing someone disappear and reappear in a different spot right before your eyes might be freaky, but imagine if it actually happened to you. It was cold and it felt like pins and needles all over my body, and I don't even know if it was me doing it."

"SHIELD is looking for a qualified agent to run some tests as soon as possible. It's a simple process, nothing to be nervous about. All that you have to do is let the agent draw a few small vials of blood, test your reflexes; it's a less invasive process than a full physical at your doctor's office," says Hill. "Finding a scientist that meets the standards of this particular situation is going to take a while, meaning you'll have time to worry about that process later. For now, we're going to have to keep you under surveillance for the next twenty-four hours. Sleeping quarters are in the subterranean levels. Just walk down the elevator at the end of the hall, scan your ID badge, and you should see the floors you're allowed access to."

I nod and she presses a button underneath the table that opens the interrogation room door. I take that as my cue to leave while she returns to a more important task than making sure I'm being babysat while a crisis goes on. As I'm walking towards the elevator, I pass a surveillance room, and one of the monitors catches my attention. Then all of the monitors have my attention. The agents are watching the final battle between Iron Man and more of those Extremis…would they be Extremis soldiers or Extremis victims?

Something doesn't feel right, when this really should feel familiar. I'm watching Iron Man save the day through the safety of a screen. I tell myself it's like a watching a movie, but it's not. It's the farthest thing from entertaining, really, and I can't bring myself to continue watching it. So, I leave in search of the Hub's sleeping quarters, hoping that the good guys make it off that boat alive.

* * *

 _December 25th 2012_

Early the next morning—we're talking long before sunrise early—I find myself sitting in Dr. Jemma Simmons' laboratory at the Hub, having vile after vile of blood taken from me.

"That's a peculiar scar you've got there," says Simmons. "Is there a story behind it?"

"Scar? Where—oh, that. That's from Stuttgart," I reply.

"You were there?" she asks eagerly. "Sorry, please excuse my enthusiasm; I've never really been in the midst of all the action that happens around here. I'm usually just stuck in this lab. How'd it happen?"

"Nothing nearly as exciting as anything you might be thinking of," I say. "I think I got pushed into a concrete planter—well, I got pushed or I just tripped, it could go either way."

Before she starts examining the blood, Simmons gives me a few bottles of water and one of SHIELD's nasty, bland-as-all-hell beige meal supplement bars. Honestly, dirt might taste better, but I don't plan on going through the necessary steps to prove such a theory.

Simmons preps several microscope slides with a drop of my blood and carefully pushes each one into place. She peers through the eye piece of each microscope for a long while, then, after a couple hours, says, "Now, there is a slight abnormality here; I haven't seen anything like it! Your DNA what might be some sort of extra-dimensional energy circling it. It's not present in every blood sample I've taken and…"

She takes another look through each of the microscopes, "Oh! How fascinating! See, initially, Samples 1, 3, 7, and 12 had that abnormality, but now they're completely normal and instead, 2 and 5 have developed it—and so have 6 and 10…And 10 has lost it…and 12 has it again…and "

I frown, "That doesn't sound interesting, that sounds like cancer."

"Oh, don't be silly, I know what cancer looks like. Cancer cells don't disappear of their own accord; they only multiply. This here seems to be completely harmless," she says. "However, it doesn't seem to be disappearing and reappearing at a predictable rate. This is exciting! We may have discovered something entirely new!"

"Technically, you did," I point out. It's true. I did nothing; all I'm taking from this is the revelation that I am a genetic freak.

I have to say, I don't like the the sound of her finding something "entirely new" in my DNA. To Dr. Simmons, it's an exciting opportunity to be the first to learn about something, possibly something that she gets to name, possibly after herself, but all I can think about is how this could be very, very bad. It could just be a thing, something comparable to having an uncommon allergy—you can just pretend you don't unless you happen to find yourself put in a situation where that uncommon thing isn't uncommon—or it could mean I could die. Or someone else could die. The first thing that springs to mind is the possibility that it was me who supernaturally cut that guy's hand off in Tennessee.

Simmons is filling out a spreadsheet when Commander Hill walks into the lab, asking her for a full report.

"I understand the reason Miss Little has been brought here is because it is expected she is an enhanced individual, but from what I've seen, she's a fraction of a fraction of a percent away from being a completely average, healthy human being," says Simmons, with her typical unwavering smile. "The anomaly is naturally occurring—that is, when it's present—but it isn't active in such a way that would identify her as a mutant. The other issue is that since this anomaly hasn't been proven to be the result of contact with a foreign energy, she can't actually be officially classified as an enhanced person."

"May I?" asks Hill, gesturing towards the microscopes.

"Of course," says Simmons. "There seems to be a weak energy circling her DNA, but it doesn't stay—it's a lot like that investigation we held at her flat the other day. I've never seen anything like this—I've never even heard of a similar case. I would recommend her staying at the Hub just a little longer; I'd like to study this some more and I really think SHIELD could benefit from the results."

It's extremely nerve-wracking, hearing her talk about me like that. Most of what she says is difficult to process, but the gist of it seems to involve me becoming some kind of guinea pig and I am not okay with that. Dr. Simmons seems nice, and I do want to know what's wrong with me, but I'd prefer to spend as little time as possible at any SHIELD facility, especially if that any time spent includes me being dissected.

Anyway, back to the present: if it weren't for the fact she was talking about my DNA, especially after all that stuff Simmons said, I'd be happy to hear Hill say this:

"These look like perfectly normal blood samples to me," says Hill. "I may not have a PhD in biochemistry, but I've seen normal and it tends to look like that."

"What?" Simmons goes from microscope to microscope, disappointment building in her expression with each glance. "It's gone! But there was something there, I promise. Here, I created a timesheet. The abnormality comes and goes at an unpredictable rate, but I'm confident that it will come back shortly, in at least one of these samples."

Hill shakes her head, "Hand has a team that needs this space and you should be getting the news about whether or not you've been chosen for that special assignment any day now. If Alice here is stable, regardless of what you may or may not have seen in her DNA earlier, we have to send her home."

And they do. Simmons locks up all of the blood samples and hands them over to Commander Hill. Within the next ten minutes, I'm on a flight home. SHIELD has decided to do me a solid and made sure my car and everything else I left in Virginia are waiting for me at LaGuardia airport.

For a long while I just sit in the driver's seat, thinking about everything and nothing in particular. When I decide it's time to head home, I buckle up and adjust the rearview mirror. It's in that moment I catch a glimpse of my own face and I'm struck with realization again. It's nothing new. I'm already aware that the incident in Rose Hill left me with the tiniest little nicks on one side of my face, so tiny they could easily be mistaken for freckles, but cuts nonetheless. It's not like I've never looked like this before; a makeup-free and tired face, the ugly navy blue SHIELD tracksuit, the tiny cuts and scrapes on my face and forearms, and even the bruises circling my neck from yet another run-in with the bad guys. Am I upset? Of course I am, I'm just not as surprised as I might've been had this not been the second time this year that something like this has happened. That's where the realization comes from: that this is the second time this year that I've found myself in yet another disaster, even if it wasn't during its climax.

God, this better not become a habit. I suppose I can't just count on the odds nothing like this will ever happen to me again. As it turns out, being well read and researched it situations like this doesn't count for shit. Then again, well-read in this situation just means I invested too much time in sci-fi from the time I learned how to read, and the aforementioned research was just me talking my way into getting an intelligence agency to tell me things I already knew, which I then wrote down. Wow. Was I even trying to prepare myself for anything? Maybe I should look into some sort of combat training. Huh. I wonder what Natasha's up to on her days off…

* * *

 **AN: It's not over yet. But, when it finally ends, the next one's going to be called Wonder, Mystery, and Danger.**


	7. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: Just Alice is mine, nobody sue me.**

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

After the Battle on the Norco, a battle that I am ever so grateful that I did not have to experience firsthand, I didn't hear anything from SHIELD for almost a year. Of course, I didn't know it would be that long and every moment was spent anxiously waiting for them to knock on my door. It's annoying, to say the least, that SHIELD made my life an even bigger mystery to me, then proceeded to block off any contact I had with them.

Bringing us to today: it is the thirtieth of October and I should be on my way to the airport right now, but a certain Director Nick Fury has invited himself into my home, so instead of seeing my best friend in person for the first time in almost nine months, I'm making tea for the head of SHIELD.

"How's Steve doing?" I ask while I wait for the water to boil.

"Captain Rogers is…settling," says Fury. "He's making an exceptional contribution to SHIELD, not that there were any doubts there."

I nod, though he didn't really answer my question. There's a few minutes of awkward silence that's only interrupted when the kettle starts whistling. I pour us each a cup of tea—Earl Grey at the Director's request—before sitting down across from him and waiting for him to start talking.

"So…" I say. "When are we going to get to the part where you tell me what you want?"

"Do you recall the conversation we had at the Hub during the Mandarin crisis?" He asks.

"You mean the only conversation we've had since Loki tried to take over the world?" I respond. "Yes, vaguely, but I have since come to terms with the information in the file Natasha gave me. Things are different now, but I am just going to have to live with it."

"Really?" says Fury, unconvinced. "So you wouldn't be interested in a firsthand account of what your parents did that ultimately ended their lives?"

"I would be very interested," I answer, a little too eager. "But…this is in exchange for…?"

"You're going to tell me what you told the Avengers after the Battle of New York," says Fury. "And don't try bullshitting your way around this."

He places a briefcase on the table and opens it to show me what I assume is a weapon of mass destruction, solely based off of the way it looks. He then continues, "QNB-T16. The strongest truth drug SHIELD makes, and the way it's administered does not feel good."

Eyeing the repository full of an unnerving, translucent green liquid and the fairly large needle at the end of the gun. "Okay. I have to warn you; while this is 100% the unabridged truth, it sounds a little far-fetched. Also, I have to ask that you keep this off record, off every record—forever. Deal?"

* * *

 **AN: And that's it for this story. Thank God, that's over. Hopefully, the next one will be up in a week or two, but I can't make any promises because I'm kind of a piece of shit. Sorry.**


End file.
